


Some kind of practice

by thereisnosuchthingasunicorns



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereisnosuchthingasunicorns/pseuds/thereisnosuchthingasunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles is exhausted and yet wired, remembering far too well what it felt like having Chris’ hard body pressed against his back, being pressed into the ground, having Chris’ long fingers in a death grip against his bony wrists."</p>
<p>The one where Chris helps Stiles with his fighting skills and Stiles kinda falls for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some kind of practice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> For my [mate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/), as always <3  
> Thank you for beta'ing it!
> 
> If you like, come and say hi to me, I'm thereisnosuchthingasunicorns on tumblr too.  
> Enjoy :)

Stiles’ Jeep is still at the mechanic’s – thanks to the supernatural of the month and Mr. Argent has to drive him back home after their daily fighting practice.

Stiles is exhausted and yet wired, remembering far too well what it felt like having Chris’ hard body pressed against his back, being pressed into the ground, having Chris’ long fingers in a death grip against his bony wrists. The man didn’t go easy on Stiles, never did, but Stiles gets it. This is necessary, especially when you’re human and without any extra strength.

They aren’t friends exactly, but they benefit from each other and it’s okay. It’s nice being around another human for once, being on the same level, even though Stiles has no illusions about this. He knows Chris can snap his neck even before he’d notice the man moving, but he keeps getting better, doesn’t lose all the fights.

As if he can read Stiles mind, Chris breaks the silence.

“You did good today, kid!”, he says, eyes fixed on the road. “I didn’t go too hard on you, did I?”

 And hearing him says words like _hard_ does things to Stiles. Adrenaline is still buzzing through his veins and he’s been half hard ever since he got pinned to the ground, but he manages to shake his head.

“’M fine.”

Chris chuckles and takes his gaze from the road for a second, giving Stiles a once-over.

“Sure you are, boy. Would never argue about that.”

He’s doing this on purpose, has to, Stiles is sure of it. His instincts are telling him to run, telling him that his man is a danger, telling him not to get involved in _anything_ , but Stiles can’t.

Can’t because those icy eyes seem to look right through him; the deep, rough voice could give him any order and he would obey.

Suddenly, there is a hand on his thigh and Stiles jumps.

“You sure you’re alright, Stiles? You’ve been awfully tense tonight.”

And Stiles wants to shout at him, tell him that this is all his fault, that he can’t think about anything else but those callused hands on him, those chapped lips on his. Chris’ hand is still on Stiles leg, warm and heavy and much too present. He jerks, trying to get away from the contact before Chris can come too close to his crotch, but causes the opposite, because the hand is on his dick at once and Stiles’ mind goes blank.

He blinks, dimly aware that the car has stopped at some point and then Chris’ face is only inches apart from his.

“Can I … Stiles?”

The man’s breath is warm on Stiles’ lips, words too sweet to negate and he nods, or at least he thinks he does, because there are lips on his and the hand on his dick squeezes. He boy’s hips buckle without permission into the stroke and Stiles groans, sucking hungrily on the tongue  pushing between his lips.

Everything is a blur, everything feels _so_ good and then it’s too much. Heat coils somewhere in his belly and he comes, hard and messy, while Chris’ teeth are on his neck, scrapping lightly against his pulse point.

Slowly the shadows around him start to make sense again and the pieces in his brain slot into a full picture.

Chris.

Chris fucking Argent, the hunter, just gave him a hand job.

In his car.

 While parking in front of their house, the sheriff’s house.

Jesus Christ!

Stiles scrambles, hurries to collect himself, one hand ready to open the car door.

Chris on the other hand is sitting in his seat again, calm and stoic as always.

Except.

He’s licking his fingers clean, coated with Stiles’ come and Stiles’ dick is so very on board with that idea, it’s not even funny. This is new for him, all of this, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do, so he flees.

A rumbling laugh and a “See you tomorrow, Stiles!” follows him as he fumbles with his keys and stumbles into the safety of his empty house.

Tomorrow.

Okay.

He’s not sure he’ll survive the training.


End file.
